


A Product of Loveliness

by compo67



Series: Chicago Verse [113]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Body Dysphoria, Codependency, Domestic, Emotional Baggage, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Gender Dysphoria, Genderqueer Sam, Growing Old Together, Heaven, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Lingerie, M/M, Medical Conditions, Medical Trauma, Old Married Couple, Post-Series, Psychic Abilities, Psychic Bond, Sex Shop, no actual death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-20 22:40:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11344566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: Sam worries.He has always been a worrier. It was necessary to survive his family dynamics. And it's difficult to confront the apocalypse, the devil, god, heaven, hell, and Dean's morning breath without some degree of excess worrying.This time, he might have worried too much.





	A Product of Loveliness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mcdanno28](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcdanno28/gifts).



Sam worries.

He has always been a worrier. It was necessary to survive his family dynamics. And it's difficult to confront the apocalypse, the devil, god, heaven, hell, and Dean's morning breath without some degree of excess worrying. 

Thing is, Sam always assumed that aging meant he would worry less. He expected to be free from the various pressures of society. Age was supposed to herald a new era of caring less and saying more, "Fuck you, fuck all of you." Wasn't that part of the prize for them? The lack of worrying? The gray hair, the sore joints, the house slippers, the newspaper subscription, and the AARP magazines? If Dean could make it to fifty-eight and Sam could make it to fifty-four, then why, why did worry and anxiety and panic fill up in his chest? 

Especially now.

Not at his usual place for these kinds of... purchases.

On Clark Street, everyone in the shop knows him. They understand his tastes, preferences, and measurements. Sally researches and emails him new arrivals that might--and often do--pique his interest. She shares her opinions with a manner of respect, thoughtful in her words and selections. Her coworkers handle everything with the same standard of excellent customer service. All of it is discreet, personal, and tailored to him. 

Here, Sam feels exposed.

And rather uncomfortable with the prospect of asking for his size in the item he saw online, but cannot find on the sales floor. It's true that the folks on Clark were all at one time strangers, but this is peculiarly different. He can't quite logically map out why it's different, it just is. For one, none of the merchandise is on display, out of their boxes, available for customers to touch and feel. This makes the environment feel more clinical. Less of a shop and more of a store. 

It's odd how accustomed he had become to the availability of product to test then and there. He could pick up an item that caught his attention and feel the weight of it in his hands, notice the texture, and test its settings. In this store, such a thing is distinctly frowned upon. 

The layout is also vastly different. Racks of DVDs divide the overall flow and feel, they take up most of the square footage. DVD sales are clearly the lifeblood of this store, which Sam respects, to a degree. None of the content seems made by or for anyone other than cis-gender, heterosexual men. And even though it's dangerous to assume, that seems to be the core group of clientele . 

Sam worries.

And he worries not just because this is a new experience for him. 

He worries because he feels uncomfortable and unsafe asking for a pair of panties in his size.

This reminds him of the privileges he's had over the entire course of his life, and how fortunate he is to embody the vision of a white, cis-gender, heterosexual, able-bodied man. He passes for one, always has, and that, he realizes, has kept him from feeling this sense of dread in the pit of his stomach. 

Even though that's not who he is, it's what people see him as at first glance, and that's enough to benefit from it. 

Standing in front of a selection of cock rings, Sam sighs and keeps his head down. This is not his first sex store. Far from it. Events in his life have dragged him through a wide variety of sex stores--cases, curiosity, boredom, and his own brother. And yes, even John brought Sam to one, when he was sixteen, as part of an attempt to educate Sam. It was painful. Not because he was embarrassed or shocked. 

But it felt like hot pins were slipped into every nerve and joint in his body the second he saw John pass over a copy of lesbian porn to Dean who immediately looked interested and intrigued. In what they thought were whispers, John and Dean traded praise of both porn stars on the cover. It wasn't commentary that was mean, cruel, or degrading. It wasn't even really anything dirty. 

It was just enough to remind Sam of what he could never be for Dean--and more importantly, for himself. 

No matter what relationship they had.

Dysphoria, that's the word. This store makes him feel hot pins. So why is he here? Why did he take a ten dollar Uber from work to this place? What is he still doing here? He can leave. He doesn't have to buy anything or talk to anyone. It's not like the staff member at the register said hello and how are you to him upon entry. He should have just bought the damn thing online. Or not at all. Or gone to his usual place and inquired about something similar there. 

He can't do it.

He can't stay here another minute. 

Pushing open the heavy door, Sam stumbles out onto the street, upset and breathing hard. This was a mistake. No. This was a series of mistakes. 

Sam's phone goes off--loud and piercing. 

"Are you trying to give me a heart attack? Sam? Where the fuck are you?"

"Dean?" 

"Yeah, who else would it be? The Queen? Sam, I'm picking up something like a liquor store. Are you near a liquor store? What do you see?"

Sam looks around, his eyes desperately searching the street. "Yeah. It's... Binny's. It's a Binny's."

"Stay there. Do you hear me? Stay right where you are. I'm ten minutes away."

"No," Sam murmurs, running a hand through his hair. "No, I... I took an Uber here." 

"You took a what? Seriously? Mother of fuck. Just stay right there, don't move an inch. I'm on my way."

Their connection severs.

And Sam wakes up, in bed, startled and afraid. 

How could that have been a dream? Nothing but a combination of his subconscious messing with his brain during its most vulnerable hours? Fear pulls at his lungs, affecting his breathing, because the other side of the bed is unoccupied. Unoccupied and cold and neatly made. Sam swallows the shout building in his throat. Experience has taught him the dangers of calling out before taking an assessment of the situation.

Calm down.

Wow, when has telling himself that ever worked? 

He sits up. He looks down at himself, reassured by the presence of one of Dean's gray Henleys on him and a pair of boxers. This is an odd time of year in Chicago. The weather doesn't know what to do with itself, despite it being officially summer. They've had the air conditioning on three out of seven days in the past week--Sam remembers that--and yet they still find themselves using their sheets and blankets those four other days. 

Nothing around the room looks damaged, moved, or tilting. 

And finally, Sam hears the distant sound of the shower running in the bathroom. 

Deep breath in. Deep breath out. This must have been the result of a nightmare. A very vivid nightmare. Exhaustion attempts to lure Sam back into bed, but worry pushes him out of it. None of his usual aches and pains appear when he stands. A quick look around his nightstand and he spots his slippers nearby. Ten in the morning. How long was Dean going to let him sleep? 

Sam peers outside their bedroom window, cracking open the shades. Overcast. Maybe the change in weather has made him a little tired. Maybe, despite the nightmare, it was good to get more sleep. 

With a sigh, Sam makes his way towards the bathroom. He no longer hears the shower, and when he steps in, he finds the bathroom mirror steamed over and a damp towel on the counter. The warmth of the hot shower his brother just took eases the tightness in his chest and lower back. Sam inhales and exhales the scent of Dial soap and Old Spice.

It's Sunday. Somehow, he knows that. He's off tomorrow. They were going to do something for Sam's three day weekend. The details feel foggy to him as he uses the bathroom and washes his hands. Were they going to the suburbs for something? Or to Amish country? No, they had each tossed out those ideas but in the end decided to stay home. Yesterday they marathoned movies and podcasts on the couch, leaving only to either use the bathroom or acquire more snacks. Sam had Dean listen to two episodes of a history podcast; Dean had Sam listen to three episodes of something where the librarians were awful and a dragon wanted to run for Mayor. 

After brushing his teeth, Sam touches his face, hair, and chest. 

He's fine. Just paranoid. 

He practices a smile before leaving the bathroom, carefully noting his reflection in the mirror. 

In the hallway, right outside the bathroom, Sam finds Dean's cane propped up against the wall. Dean can walk without it, sometimes, but he should have it with him for balance and support. Sam picks it up and walks with it on the way to the kitchen. 

A pot of coffee sits on the counter, half full, wisps of steam still rising from it. The mortar and pestle Mrs. Martinez gave them last year lays out, ready to be used, a group of peppers and onions nearby. Flowers that Sam brought home the other day remain on the windowsill, in their milk jug vase. Everything looks to be in order. Dean's knives, the cutting boards, magnets on the fridge holding coupons or post-its, and the neat grocery list Dean keeps on the whiteboard. 

But no Dean.

Until Sam hears the rumble of the lawn mower from the front yard. 

That explains not taking his cane. But really? Does he have to mow the lawn now? Didn’t they agree to let the kids three houses down take care of it? 

Is it raining? 

Sam looks out the kitchen window. Pewter clouds hover over a large swath of sky. The faint rumble of thunder promises a storm. The grass needs rain. Chicago needs a good storm. It might be nice to curl up with a book and a blanket and a cup of tea, maybe crack the window open for a sliver of sounds from the outside. It might be nice to walk outside and force Dean to retreat from his chore and kiss the first few rain drops off of his nose. 

Maybe bring him inside and insist on getting him out of damp clothes and into bed, where it is obviously much warmer and more comfortable. Massage his knee. Listen to his stories about what the neighbors are up to and tease him that he’s become a hen. Ignore his dismissal and insistence that his knee isn’t hurting more than usual. Apply some light pressure and distract Dean by pressing their lips together. Not quite kissing. The beginning of a kiss. Hold his lips against Dean’s for just a few seconds while they rest on a bed they call theirs and in a room of their own. 

Understand the words carved into Dean that go deeper than any rib.

Tumble into a kiss that blooms into a series of kisses--some rough, some playful, some desperate.

Drink Dean in like a mug of peppermint tea, steamy and sweet. Let the taste of him roll on his tongue and flood his senses with relief and warmth. Inch forward, move slow, let it all naturally unfold. 

Listen to Dean praise Sam’s black, smooth panties. 

Create song and light in his mind with his eyes closed and hands all over Dean. Revel. Bask. Tilt his head back for better access while Dean’s mouth and teeth chase at sensitive nerve endings. Never once question leaving a mark. Encourage it. Moan the second Dean bites down. Lean into the pressure of teeth and tongue and suctioned lips. Move and adjust and settle into Dean’s lap, rock against the curve of Dean’s cock. 

Wonder how he managed without this and without them for any period of time. 

Laugh at the availability of lube and Dean’s expert application of it. Remind him of the times they only had spit and best wishes. Laugh again when Dean suggests they try it now. Ask, in earnest, for Dean to stop talking and please continue the motion, the action, the movement. Forget the twinge of pain as Dean pushes into him. Relish the burn and the ache and the exchange of body heat. Curl his fingers in short, tawny hair and give kiss one kiss for every inch of his cock that slides right in. Right in, all the way to the base, Sam’s thighs twitching and ass clenching and chest heaving. Place his head on Dean’s shoulder and let out a noise while Dean massages and gropes his ass, hard enough, Sam is sure, to leave pink handprints. 

Beg Dean to move. 

Tell him in whispers and gasps how much he loves being fucked this way. 

Drag his fingernails down Dean’s back. Dare him, entice him, give him permission to fuck Sam black and blue. Let Dean know that he can’t ever get enough. Gasp. Moan. Match every thrust with a downward grind. Listen to the sound of Dean’s cock fucking him deep, fucking him so good, carnal and frenzied and rough.

Wince and whimper and ask for another slap to his ass. 

And another.

And another--please.

Lose himself complete and absolute in rhythmic thrusts. Escape into the feeling of Dean’s cock buried inside him, deep, heavy, aching, pounding away inside Sam, chasing that one bundle of nerves. 

Dean fucking him open. Fucking him without a doubt. Without hesitation. 

Without guilt.

Place a hand on Dean’s chest and hold him there. Ride him. Really fucking ride him. Fuck himself over Dean’s cock. Ignore the rattle of their bed, the slam of their headboard, and the topple of objects nearby. Breathe in Dean. Breathe out Sam. 

Come. Then, come again. 

Shudder at the sensation of come leaking out in thick, sticky ropes, coating the insides of his thighs, making them messy and slick. 

Pry Dean’s hands off of his ass and laugh at the blissed out expression. 

Jokingly ask for a cigarette.

Wait.

Cigarette. 

Sam stumbles backwards and bumps into the kitchen counter. Where is his mind? Where is Dean? 

A single cigarette smolders in an ashtray on the kitchen table. He should be here. In the kitchen. Embracing Sam. Soothing him. Cracking some terrible joke. Flashing that ridiculous, crooked smile. Hands a little too far south on Sam. Looking up at him with the same dedication and loyalty as when they were kids and Sam needed all the reassurance in the world. 

Sam hasn’t smoked in years. 

This can’t be right. 

It’s sunny outside. The clouds, rain, and thunder disappeared. Gone in solidarity, the lawn mower can’t be heard. Silence invades the kitchen and picks up a knife. The table moves. A plate breaks--snaps in half--five feet from where Sam stands. 

With Dean’s cane, Sam storms out to the front lawn. 

He releases his voice and shouts, “Dean!” 

A solitary breeze rushes past. Their street stretches out before him quiet, empty. No cars, no bikes, no cabs, no older ladies sitting on the front porch minding little ones drawing on the sidewalk with chalk. Nothing but a cruel lash of wind and the unforgiving glare of the sun. 

“Dean!” 

Walking with the cane proves more difficult than Sam anticipated. He drags the right side of his body, forcing himself to lean on the cane. This is important. The cane. And finding Dean. Sam bombards the backyard, yelling out code. 

“Dean! This means war! Holy war! Flock, follow!” Where are you? Are you hurt? Do you need backup? “Mr. Pilgrim, trapped in the amber of this moment!” Is someone holding you hostage? “Dean--nothing is weaker than man.” I’m escalating the situation. 

When they were in their teens, Dean suggested using the entire lyrics from “Thriller,” as their code. For two weeks, they tried it. Sam can hear Dean calling out in the dense darkness of a South Carolina mansion. He can hear nineteen year old Dean as clear as a bell. 

“It’s close to midnight and somethin’ evil’s lurkin’ in the dark.” 

Sam barrels into Mrs. Martinez’s backyard. He bumps into one of her patio chairs and taps on the backdoor with the cane. Nothing. Just another lyric in his head, Dean’s twang stunning and fine.

“You close your eyes and hope that this is just imagination.” 

Do not panic. 

It’s likely Mrs. Martinez stepped out. But what about Mr. Lobo two houses over? Or Don Julio across the way? Didn’t his three grandchildren move in last week? There should be noise. There should be Lani on her front steps talking on her phone from morning til night because she’s fifteen and that’s all she has any interest in doing. There should be Mrs. Sanchez arguing with Mrs. Jara about recipes they remember from Oaxaca while they hang their laundry or sweep the sidewalks. There should be cars, scooters, bikes, cabs, buses, skateboards. 

There should be Dean.

Home from physical therapy, cranky and tired, sweating and grumbling about having to go twice a week can be considered torture. That’s what PT really stands for--pain and torture. Those college kids get a real kick out of telling him to do two sets of ten leg lifts. Why don’t they just say twenty? And why don’t they just shove their cheery, chipper little attitudes up their asses? No, he’s not excited to work on his hip flexors today. Never will be. 

“You’re fighting for your life inside a killer.” 

“Dean!” Sam heard that. He  _ heard _ it. Not just in his head. Driven by impulse, Sam makes his way back to their home, silence closing in. He fights to listen, listen harder. Listen closer. Just listen. 

Infatuation. Obsession. Compulsion. Codependency. 

All of that, all at once rushes through Sam’s veins. 

Not in the kitchen. Not in the living room. Not in the dining room. Not in their bathroom. Not in the guest bathroom, which used to be Sam’s bathroom, because when they first moved in, it seemed like a good idea to have some space. Not in the guest bedroom, which used to be Sam’s bedroom, because when they first moved in, it seemed like a good idea to allow each other these boundaries. It’d be healthy. 

Not in the study. Not in the hall. 

Not in their bedroom. 

Dean’s cane launches from Sam’s hand and snaps in half against a wall. Every piece of furniture in the house rises three inches above the floor, rattling in place, threatening and dangerous. Sam yells. The dresser snaps into four pieces. He covers his ears, closes his eyes, and wonders why the fuck he went to that store in the first place. That’s what started this. 

Playful and young, Dean’s voice sounds out in Sam’s head. 

“Hey pretty baby with the high heels on.” They finished that hunt. And sat by a lake, two in the morning, their feet submerged in the water, and another job behind them. “You give me fever, like I’ve never,ever known. You’re just a product of loveliness.” Dean winks. “Your talk, your dress, I feel your fever. You knock me off my feet.”

That was code.

It was nameless, unconditional acceptance.

Sam went into the store because he just wanted to be brave.

“Ain’t nobody’s business,” Dean sings, carefree and young. “Ain’t nobody’s business but mine and my baby. Come on, be my girl. Go on girl!” 

Sam opens his eyes.

Horizontal, he looks up at Dean, who looks like shit. His eyes are red, his nose is runny, lips are chapped, and the wrinkles in his face stand out, deep like rivers. Not nineteen. 

And the first word out of his mouth is not a Michael Jackson reference.

“Sam.” 

Dean cradles Sam’s face in his hands. 

“Don’t go,” Dean stammers. “Don’t go where I can’t follow, asshole.” 

The hospital room has been kept sparse as a precaution. Whatever fixture or furniture or machine left was bolted or strapped down. Fluorescent light washes over everything. The IV in Sam’s arm aches. 

He went home. How could Dean possibly not follow? 

Dean brushes a piece of Sam’s hair away from his face. 

“Sam. You had a stroke.” 

Dean worries. 

**Author's Note:**

> well... uh... /coughs/ happy birthday to my beta T, who asked for something fluffy and smutty and got this. i just...? it turned dark and i couldn't fix it and omg. D:
> 
> i took a break from my hiatus and working on my BB to write this for T--one of the most important people in my life. thank you for everything, dearest one. 
> 
> so uh... please don't hate me...


End file.
